


The five stages (to being left behind)

by ForReasonsUnknown (orphan_account)



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Battle of Britain, Denial, M/M, Post Film, Secret Relationship, WW2 era, ambiguity over character death, rating may also change, tags will be updated as works are added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-09 22:05:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13490733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ForReasonsUnknown
Summary: The different phases Collins goes through following Dunkirk, spanning from days after the event, to the end of the war years later.





	The five stages (to being left behind)

**Author's Note:**

> So here we are then, embarking on yet another angst filled adventure. Let me know what you think of this whole idea, there'll be five parts to this series. If y'all like it, it shall be continued, and a corresponding series from Farrier's point of view may well come into being!
> 
> (ALSO: that title may also change...not too sure I like it)
> 
> Enjoy all you wonderful people! x

**_1 week._ **

Collins returns to base alone. It takes him just over a day, the sun starting to set by the time he makes it. Eyes are on him immediately, pilots and engineers alike all turning to watch him cross the runway to the offices. They’d known that at least one of them had made it, but they hadn’t expected it to be him. They’d expected it to be Farrier.

It didn’t matter though, Farrier would be back. It was just a matter of time.

He would be back.

He's taken off active duty for a while. It's best for him, they say, faces all contorted with false concern. He'd been the only one to come back that day, after all, and even that had been a close call, nearly getting himself drowned in the Channel. They try to get him to leave, to take a few days away in the city, or go and rent somewhere in the town nearby. He needs the rest, they say. The coming months will be a trial, Europe has fallen and Britain is next, better to save his energy for the real fight. 

He declines with a tight smile and clipped words, lying through his teeth as he says he'd rather be on base should the worst happen, should the Luftwaffe come screaming out of the sun like they had at Dunkirk, reigning down their fire and destruction on ol' Blighty. And they accept, reluctant but unable to refuse. He sees the worry in their eyes, and the disappointment. They know what’s coming, everyone does. They’d rather it be Farrier who’d come back, not him.

There is a reason he stays though, there is a reason he spends days on end in his bunk, smoking endless cigarettes and listening idly to the radio, ignoring the glances shot his way.

He's waiting. For Farrier.

When he comes back to base, the first thing Farrier will do will be to look for him, he'll bypass all that official nonsense. Collins knows, it's happened before. And if Collins isn't there when he comes back, he'll panic. So he stays. He waits. 

Because he’s coming back, _of course he is_.

He sits alone in the mess, always given a wide berth, even now. The table closest to him is clustered with new and old fliers alike, but they regard him differently. The older ones – the ones who knew him, who’d known Farrier – regard him with pity, but also some fear. Remembering what Collins had been like before Farrier had taken him under his wing. The newer ones just gossip. Saying there’s no more boats coming back from Dunkirk, that France is lost. That anyone left behind there has been killed or captured. Debating which of those fates would be more dignified. They hope he doesn't hear, but he does. He doesn't make a point of it though. Just because there's no boats, it doesn't mean Farrier isn't still alive. He'll have evaded capture, be with those French Resistance lot, or be on his way somewhere safe. He's smart, his Farrier, it'll take a lot more than Hitler's goons to send him to meet his maker. 

They let him back onto active duty, but don't send him out. The missions he's assigned to get changed at the last minute, his name scratched off and replaced with some other poor bastard's. So he helps with repairs, with paperwork, anything to keep his mind and hands busy. One day a hurricane comes flaming out of the sky, and Collins pulls the pilot out, barely missing a face full of flames as the machine explodes, the blonde dragging the unconscious man across the tarmac, screaming his throat hoarse until help arrives. He dies an hour later in the infirmary, bleeding out from bullet wounds too large to be sealed.

He gets called in that evening, blood and dirt still under his fingernails. They ask if they need to be worried about him, he assures them that they don't, but even he doesn't believe it. They take him off active duty for another week, and they lose five men. Another gets shot down over the channel and makes it back in three days, bruised and battered, but alive.

There's still no word from Farrier. 

The first time he flies after Dunkirk he nearly gets himself killed. He hadn't anticipated how different it would be to not have Farrier's voice in his ear, to not observe him at his side. It left a hole that couldn't be filled, left him distracted and searching for that synchronicity that they'd built up, predicting each other's movements by instinct, never needing words. He'd been so distracted he'd not seen the three Messerschmidts diving down upon them, not heard their leader's screeched order to break formation.

It'd only been when gunfire had gone streaking past him that he'd realised, and got himself out. 

They'd returned to base one man down. Distracted with their own dogfights, the kid had been ganged up on by two Germans. Before the rest of them could react, it was over, his plane spiralling out of the sky, his screams filling their ears. Collins had been given a right bollocking, and taken off duty again. He heard about a reconnaissance flight that was to skirt past the French coast, assess the situation in Dunkirk and Calais; whether France was well and truly lost. 

He'd not been allowed onto it.

The night before the mission flew, he sat in his bunk, the barracks blissfully silent with everyone else in the mess for dinner. He had Farrier's ring between his fingers, the silver glinting softly in the low light, running his fingers over the indecipherable engravings. He'd found it in his jacket pocket on the boat, the great chalky cliffs of Dorset looming over him. He'd thought he'd feel at home as soon as he saw those cliffs. He hadn't. 

He now realises that he left home somewhere on Dunkirk beach. 

But it'd come back. He'd come back. Farrier would come back.

 _He would._  

He watches the boys take off the next morning, fiddling with the ring again in his pocket, and tries to forget. There's a Spitfire with a troubled engine, so Collins spends the day there, covered in grease and oil, but filled with pride nevertheless when hours later, it bursts into life with a tremendous roar. As he's leaving the hangar, the squadron returns, all of six of them still alive. A few bullet holes in their birds, yes, but alive all the same. 

The leader is out of his first, and he catches Collins' eye across the runway. Pity is painted all over his face, and Collins' chest seizes. He pretends not to notice, and trudges back to the barracks, hiding himself away and smoking like a chimney. They probably hadn’t seen anything, that was why he’d given Collins that look. But they didn’t know Farrier, didn’t know what he was capable. They could assume all they liked, but Collins knew. He did.

Farrier would come home to him, and they’d fight the coming months together.

Hours later, the base commander comes through the door, eyes on Collins as soon as he enters. He seems hesitant, at first. Then Collins sees he has something white clutched in his hand, and he swallows around the lump that has formed in his throat. But he has an image to uphold, so he stands to attention, standing silent with his hands clenched as the man makes his way closer, still keeping some distance between them. 

"The burnt out remains of a Spitfire were found on Dunkirk beach. It looks like he landed it, and set it alight." Collins nods, fighting off the tremor in his voice, the urge to scream and fight. 

"Is he alive?" He asks after a long pause. He's met with an apologetic look and he nods to himself, eyes dropping to the floor. 

"It was far behind enemy lines. He's most likely been captured," Collins barely hears him because his mind is on fire, spiralling out of control like a downed Spitfire, everything falling apart because no, Farrier has to come back. _He has to he has to he-_ "You were listed as his next of kin." his panic abates, and he looks up, finding himself presented with a white envelope no doubt containing a letter of condolence. He becomes aware that he's being scrutinised, and quickly takes the telegram; it's a dead weight between his fingers, scorching his fingertips. 

"Aye," Collins offers in way of reply, but doesn't know how to continue. Whether he should lie, say Farrier had no other kin to send condolences to. Or tell the truth, and say that Farrier had simply decided that he didn't. "He doesn't have anyone waitin' on him." It's a lie that nearly strangles him. Because he does. Farrier does have someone waiting for him. But it's not the estranged family who he'd regarded with so much contempt. 

It was Collins, standing there with his entire world crashing down inside his head.

It was Collins, who couldn't even express his grief, who had to put on a brave face, pretend to be a friend in mourning of a friend, not a lover. 

It was Collins, with whom Farrier had shared something forbidden. 

Collins salutes as he leaves, watching his retreating back leave through the door before forcing the envelope into his pocket, grabbing a cigarette, and going the same way, ignoring the looks of pity and suspicion passed his way by the men who'd overheard the exchange. 

The air is cold outside, the setting sun taking all its warmth with it as it fades away. Collins stares at it for a moment, taking in the blinding light, looking away when his eyes start to water. He wonders how bright the light of Farrier's burning Spitfire had been, if Farrier had watched it; if his eyes had watered as he'd watched it die. 

His walk becomes erratic, before he devolves into outright stumbling, staggering around to the back of one of the hangars before collapsing onto the floor, unable to lift himself, biting back a hysteric scream. He's grazed his palm where he's fallen onto the unforgiving concrete, and he studies the reddened skin for a moment, watching the tiny beads of blood surface. It should sting but he only feels numb, rolling into his back to stare up at the empty sky.  

And he still can't accept it. There's still a chance, he might have evaded capture, he might be in hiding he might- 

He releases a strangled noise resembling a sob, and bites down on his lip till it splits and bleeds, mouth filled with the taste of copper. 

The envelope is still a dead weight where it sits, crumpled in his jacket pocket, seemingly burning through his clothes and scorching his skin. And he notices, for a still, quiet moment, how empty the sky above him is. There’s no stars, all snuffed out by the thick dark clouds but he can see the moon, covered by a veil of smoky clouds, but fighting to be seen, refusing to drown in the endless darkness above him.

He wonders for a moment whether there are any stars where Farrier is.

Whether the moon is fighting for its life there too.

Whether the sky above him is quite so empty.

He closes his eyes, and all he can see is Farrier. The last time he’d seen him out on the tarmac, corner of his lip upturned in a half smile, Collins’ own still warm from the kiss Farrier had pulled him into under the shadow of the barracks only moments earlier. Farrier beside him out over the channel, making their way to Dunkirk. Farrier behind him, protecting him, shooting down his attacker.

Farrier shooting down the Heinkel, his Spitfire soaring off in the direction of the beach, Collins unable to do anything to stop him, the stench of oil and death making his eyes water.

He opens them again, and all he can see is the empty sky hanging above him. No Farrier.

Nothing.

His fists clench at his sides, because this can’t really be happening, can it? This isn’t how it was supposed to be. Farrier was supposed to survive this. He was supposed to come home. He was supposed to be here, by Collins’ side. They were supposed to survive; together.

Instead, Collins is lying on his back, cigarette long forgotten, palms grazed and bruised, the taste of blood filling his mouth; painfully alone. He believes it now, staring up at that great empty sky. He knows Farrier won’t be coming back any time soon. And he always had, in a way. As soon as Farrier had come diving down out of the sky above him, tailing the Heinkel, he’d known. When he’d carried on towards the beach, he’d known. Farrier would never have enough fuel to get back, and by the time he’d landed on that beach, the front would have shrunk that much more, cutting him off.

And it hurts, God, it _hurts_.

But there’s no place for his grief, he has a job to do, a reputation to uphold. Feeling this way isn’t an option. So he smokes his cigarette, takes one more look up at the sky and heads back to the barracks. He ignores the stares and silence as he makes his way to his bunk, collapsing down into it and turning to face the wall. He closes his eyes, and there’s nothing there. No Farrier.

  
Farrier’s not coming home.

_He’s gone._


End file.
